These Few Precepts

            (For Marna)

I said to her, don't leave your life
scattered in boxes across the country,

don't slip away without tying down
the hatch, don't walk a mile out of

your way to avoid a crack, don't
worry about breaking your mother's

back. I'm sorry, I said, that I was
stupid when I married; I'm sorry I

chose for right instead of love, for
truth instead of beauty. They aren't

always the same thing you know,
despite what Keats said. Don't try

to do it all alone, and if you fail,
think of how well you've failed

and how all you really need is a good
view of the sky or a bit of something

—a flower petal or speckled stone—
Held close enough for the eye to

drink it in, and remember, I said,
I'll always love you, no matter what.
Joyce Sutphen

Maybe I deserve it.
Maybe I deserve your indignation,
your words of passion
against the curve of my hip,
the smile on my lips.

Maybe I deserve the constant
ups and downs,
love you call it,
love it is.

Who cares if days are long and dreary
and to whom I say,
"Darling, I am weary."
I was faulted when I was born
and even though every rose has its thorn,
I am more of a stem of grass.
Durable, patient, penitent,
easily cut
but always growing.

Maybe I do deserve it
being born less than her and her.
Maybe a mother's love is only a myth
perpetrated by people
who love nails and crosses. 

I remember when forevers seem to last forever
and yesterday seemed to be a moment in time,
a blink of an eye.

The air was cool as it travelled along my cheeks
and down my spine.
Summer was gone
and you were here to stay
a forever and a day.

Will our past seem like the first breath
of our children,
pink and wet?
One day, will today still have felt like forever
or are we doomed to yearn for the time that has passed
and to pine for the times that will stay.

No,
I did not pick up the phone that day.
I heard it ring,
ring ring,
ring ring,
over and over again.

It was real,
I checked it against the noise of the sun.
I heard your phone ring that day
and I did not pick it up.

Editing my thesis is a lot like
baking a cake.
You have a formula to follow
to make it perfect,
yet the desire to experiment
leads to failures and wasted flour.

Still the thought of warm sponge
and delicate icing
leads us to turn the oven on again.
Crack two more eggs,
time to try again.